John Hellum October 2008
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Deer Liver and Sybil Leeks
(Metaphysics to Meatballs)
My teenage years were never really taken up with the usual angst. It was near hollowe’en (I was thirteen) when I decided to take up witchcraft. It was the early seventies, steeped in the fashion of counter-culture; I came across the writings of Sybil Leek, the famed Wiccan author/practitioner. I was so taken with her teachings I had to start right away. The next day I set about with great zeal to convince my friends to join. It occurred to me then, that I would need a place to gather and conduct the sacred rituals of our arcane worship. I phoned my mum at work.
“I told you not to call me at work, unless it’s an emergency!”
In a breathless voice I told her I wanted to start a coven and would it be alright if I painted a pentacle on the basement floor, for a sacred circle?” “And oh yeah, can I burn some frankincense and orris root?”
My mother was very busy, and vaguely aware of my interest in Sybil Leek, so hurriedly agreed to it, to free her-self from the – ‘is that a personal call?’ – look from the boss.
With permission given, I marched downstairs directly, marked out the dimensions, and painted the pentacle in appropriate black. The star itself was lopsided, but being my first ever sacred circle, it looked grand. I found some colourful curtains to hang up around the walls, dragged over a plaster ram, painted turquoise. Why not? I got a big brass bowl to burn incense in, some improvised candle holders, and voila! I was all set. The sacred chamber of North Burnaby’s first coven was ready. It was thrilling. I left immediately to collect my friends and have the first ritual that evening.
Meanwhile. My mother received another phone call at work. This time it was father. He begins in a slurred voice, “Hi, honey, I’m home.” and tells her that he’s had a couple of beers, and has brought home some fresh deer meat. Not to worry. “I’ll look after it.” Then hung up.
Mother was praying there would be no more personal phone calls. One more frown from her boss, and she could kiss any raise goodbye! She immersed herself in her in her work and forgot the calls.
When she hit our front steps after work, she found Howie, our poodle, in a state. Father was snoring on the couch, and a blanket of acrid smoke hung in the air. She immediately went down to the basement. I was nowhere to be found. She saw to her horror, a smoldering stick of frankincense, a crooked black ominous symbol on the floor, along with patches of smeared blood here and there. Aghast, she turned her head only to see a large liver and raw meat pieces lying on the drain board of the laundry sink. She immediately supposed that I had performed some ritual animal sacrifice! She checked the dog, just to be sure.
She went back upstairs to make a much needed calming cup of coffee. She noticed the cast iron Dutch oven on the stove. Lifting the lid revealed Norwegian meatballs, made with venison ground with pork, minced onions, salt and pepper and bay leaf, browned then left to simmer in its gravy. It was deliciously redolent.
Father woke up, bleary eyed, kissed her and told her about the whole deer a friend has freshly killed earlier in the day. They needed a place to butcher it – in our basement. He had cleaned up pretty much all the mess, but that he would finish up after dinner. Mother could only shake her head and sit down. It was all slowly making sense.
I arrived a bit late for dinner. Those delicious meatballs were always a treat with mashed potatoes, dilled carrot and parsnips, mashed together with lots of butter, plus another Scandinavian favourite, braised shredded cabbage with sugar, vinegar, caraway seed, cooked slowly, until nearly soft.
Sitting around the table after dinner, father asked what had I done to the basement? And mother piped up, “Yes, what happened with the coven?”
“Oh, the guys didn’t join after all. They hated the smell of frankincense and didn’t want to memorize the ritual. They left to go smoke in the park, so I cancelled it”.
With that I excused myself, went done to the basement, fed the neighbour’s cat some left over liver, covered the black lopsided pentacle with an old rug and went to my room to read my Scottish history. I wondered if the painted circle could be used for the Highland sword dancing I was reading about. Neat!